Daniel and Abigail left it until nine o’clock the following morning before they went to the Strand police station. They were taken to the holding cell where Simon Anstis was being held. The artist cut a forlorn sight, his clothes crumpled from having slept in them on the cell’s hard bench. Not that he looked like he’d had much in the way of sleep.
‘We assume you stole the keys to the gallery,’ said Daniel.
His head bowed, Anstis nodded. ‘One of the attendants,’ he said. ‘He’d left them on a hook.’
‘And you got in and slashed Sickert’s portrait of Anne-Marie.’
He looked up at them, his face anguished and despairing.
‘I couldn’t bear Sickert using that to show off his relationship with Anne-Marie. Rubbing what he had with her in my face. But I swear, I never killed her. Or damaged her in any way.’ He slumped back against the wall. ‘What will happen to me? Will I go to prison?’
‘Fortunately, Mr Beckett at the National Gallery has decided not to press charges,’ said Daniel.
Anstis looked at them, a spark of hope coming into his face, which then vanished as his head dropped again.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked plaintively.
‘It means you’re a very lucky man,’ said Daniel.
‘You mean I won’t go to prison?’
‘Thanks to Mr Stanford Beckett.’
Anstis leapt to his feet.
‘I must go and see him and thank him,’ he said.
Daniel stopped him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘At this moment you won’t be welcome at the National Gallery. I suggest you stay away from it, and refrain from contacting Mr Beckett or anyone connected with the gallery.’
‘He’ll want to see me,’ insisted Anstis. ‘I have to apologise to him.’
‘He has instructed us that he doesn’t want you going to the gallery. Not at the moment. That may change.’
‘When?’
‘When some time has passed and you’ve shown that you can be trusted by staying out of trouble.’
‘But how will he know that I’ve been of good behaviour if I can’t see him?’ begged Anstis.
‘He has asked us to keep an eye on you,’ said Daniel.
‘From a distance,’ added Abigail. ‘We will be reporting to him on the way you conduct yourself. Behave as a responsible citizen, causing no trouble to anyone – and I stress anyone, and that especially includes Mr Sickert and his family and his works of art – and perhaps you will be allowed back in.’
‘I’ll be good,’ said Anstis fervently. ‘I promise!’ He looked about him at the confines of the cell. ‘How do I get out of here?’
‘Mr Beckett has given us the authority to sign for your release,’ said Daniel. ‘Once that’s done, you’re free to go.’
Anstis fell to his knees and took hold of Daniel’s coat. ‘Thank you!’ he sobbed.
‘You can thank us by keeping to the straight and narrow,’ said Daniel, lifting Anstis to his feet.
‘So Simon Anstis is back on the street,’ said Beckett. ‘Do you believe he’s safe?’
‘We do,’ said Abigail.
‘There’s nothing like the night in a police cell to make someone consider their situation,’ added Daniel.
‘Mr Millen told me about Simon being apprehended last night,’ said Beckett.
‘Do pass on our grateful thanks to Mr Millen. He was invaluable.’
‘I think he was quite proud to have taken part in the arrest of the person who damaged the painting.’
Daniel fished the two keys he’d taken from Anstis out of his pocket and put them on Beckett’s desk. ‘These belong to one of your attendants. That’s how Anstis got in.’
‘What about the damage to the painting?’ asked Abigail. ‘Is there no way to recover it?’
‘It was so seriously damaged, I have my doubts about that. But restorers can do wonderful things. Fortunately, the canvas was only slashed top to bottom, not side to side as well. I’ll ask the restorers to look at it and give a report.
‘In the meantime, we’ve decided to take positive action to try and restore the gallery’s image, move away from the murders.’
‘Oh? How?’ asked Abigail.
‘When William Turner died in 1851, he bequeathed the entire contents of his studio to the National Gallery. There were a great many finished paintings, far too many for us to show at the same time. In fact, there were 300 oil paintings, 30,000 sketches and watercolours, and 300 sketchbooks.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Abigail. ‘You’d need a Turner Gallery on its own to show all of them.’
‘Exactly,’ said Beckett. ‘Fortunately, Turner stipulated in his will that two of his paintings – Dido Building Carthage and Sun Rising Through Vapour – be displayed alongside two works by Claude: Landscape with the Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca and Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba.’
‘Claude?’ asked Daniel.
‘Claude Lorrain, a French painter who died in 1682 at the advanced age for those times of 80. Or possibly 81. Or even 79. No one’s sure of the year of his birth. In the art world he’s generally only referred to as Claude. Turner greatly admired his works, especially his landscapes.
‘In view of the recent tragedies, and the resultant bad publicity for the gallery, the Board feels now is a good time to change the display, with two not-often-seen works by Turner, along with the two by Claude. We hope it will bring the public in.’
‘Is that not in breach of Turner’s will?’ asked Abigail.
‘It appears not. Turner made his first will in 1829 when he was 54; and it was that initial will that specified Dido and Sun Rising Through Vapour. He amended his will in 1848, adding all of his works to his bequest. According to our lawyers, that later amendment means we can display any two others alongside the Claudes.
‘We will be hosting a special unveiling on Monday afternoon. We’d be honoured if you could attend.’
‘We’d be delighted,’ said Abigail.
Beckett gave a sly smile as he added: ‘There is an ulterior motive in my invitation to you. You asked before about people who might have feelings of resentment towards Walter Sickert, whether personal or professional jealousy. Most of them will undoubtedly be present at the unveiling of the new Turners and the Claude. It will give you the chance to meet some of these potential suspects in person.’
‘An afternoon listening to artists and art critics,’ groaned Daniel as they left the National Gallery.
‘It’s a good opportunity to meet people who hate Sickert.’
‘From what we’ve heard about him so far, I’d think there’s no building large enough to accommodate the number of people who loathe Walter Sickert,’ grumbled Daniel. ‘I still think we should concentrate on our hunt for the butcher, Joe Wallace.’
‘And the rich toff that Kate Branson spoke about?’
‘Heppenstall,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s got to be him.’
‘I agree we have evidence linking the butcher, but Heppenstall is still speculation. He’s a rich man who has a good reason for hating Sickert.’
‘And he may have killed his wife.’ Daniel looked thoughtful, then he said: ‘I think it might be a good idea to shake Mr Heppenstall up a bit.’
‘Upset him?’
‘In a subtle way,’ said Daniel. ‘Just enough to see if we can provoke a reaction, watch how he behaves.’
‘When? Now?’
‘No. Let’s wait until Abberline has joined us. He was always good at reading people. And his name still carries weight. Let’s see how Heppenstall reacts when he realises that the scourge of the original Ripper is on his tail.’
‘What about Henry Nichols?’ asked Abigail. ‘We haven’t checked him out since that first difficult encounter with him.’
‘I’m not sure if we can consider him as a suspect,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s neither rich, nor involved in the butchery trade.’
‘Yes, but he could be involved in some way. He’s certainly angry enough and determined to get vengeance on Sickert.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ll look into him.’
As they approached their house, they saw a horse and police van parked outside it and a large, bulky man putting something through their letter box.
‘Sergeant Cribbens!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘Sergeant!’ he called out.
‘Mr Wilson. Miss Fenton!’ beamed the sergeant. ‘I was just leaving a note from Inspector Feather, but it’s even better you’re here. There’s another body and he wants you to take a look at it with him.’
‘Another woman?’
‘No, this one’s the butcher he’s been looking for. Joe Wallace.’
‘Dead?’
Cribbens nodded as they climbed into the police van. ‘It looks like he cut his own throat. At least, a cut-throat razor was found beside his body. Admission of guilt, do you reckon? He knew he was being looked for and he decided to top himself.’
‘Where’s the body?’ asked Daniel as the van rolled along the cobbled road.
‘Seven Dials.’
Daniel looked at the sergeant, puzzled. ‘Seven Dials in Covent Garden?’
‘That’s the one,’ nodded Cribbens. ‘The inspector’s with the body now. He was hoping you might be in. I get the idea he thinks it’s odd.’
‘It certainly is!’ said Daniel. ‘A man comes all the way from Whitechapel to Seven Dials to commit suicide? And he brings a razor with him to do the job? If he’s going to kill himself, surely he’d do it nearer home? When was the body found?’
‘About an hour ago, but the inspector reckons he was killed much longer ago than that. It was in a pub privy. The door to the privy had been tied up to stop it being used. That often happens when a privy gets blocked. This morning some bloke wanted to use it urgently, so he kicked the door in and found Wallace’s body inside.’
‘Have the family been informed?’
‘The inspector sent a carriage to Whitechapel to tell his wife. She might already be there now. They went to get her not long before I was sent to find you.’
‘Seven Dials,’ sighed Daniel.
‘What’s Seven Dials?’ asked Abigail.
‘Of course, you’ve never had cause to go there,’ said Daniel. ‘Fortunately.’
‘Indeed, miss,’ contributed Cribbens. ‘It’s one of the worst rookeries in London.’
Abigail looked towards Daniel for a translation.
‘A slum area where the buildings are so crammed together you can travel through it without once stepping on the ground. In and out of upstairs windows and over roofs. It’s inhabited by criminal gangs and the poor people they live off, and there’s little the police can do about it because it’s too dangerous for the police to venture into it, unless they’re in force. And when that happens, the criminals simply disappear into the surroundings.’
‘So if Joe Wallace was there, it suggests he was meeting with some criminal,’ said Abigail.
‘Which still doesn’t make sense,’ said Daniel. ‘Criminals are very territorial. Whitechapel criminals usually stay in the East End. It’s where they know they’re safe. It can be dangerous to trespass in another gang’s area.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Here we are. I’m guessing we’ll have to walk from here.’
‘As you say, sir,’ said Cribbens. ‘The streets and lanes are too tight to get a carriage down them.’
He opened the door and Daniel and Abigail disembarked with the sergeant and followed him through narrow twisting cobbled lanes with open sewers at each side. The stench of urine and human faeces was overpowering.
‘My God!’ said Abigail recoiling. ‘I thought the tanneries of Egypt were bad, but this is even worse.’
The presence of the police had brought out some locals as onlookers, keen to find out what was going on. Abigail noticed that most of the people milling around were women and children.
‘I assume the men disappeared when the police arrived,’ she said to Daniel.
Daniel nodded. ‘It’s a tradition round here. A large police presence means questions being asked. The men are here, but out of sight.’
Sergeant Cribbens stopped by a pub with a faded sign outside, which identified it as The Flower Pot. They followed him down a narrow alley that ran beside the pub. Inspector Feather was standing beside a privy talking to a woman who appeared to be in her forties, although as they approached they realised she was much younger, just in her twenties. The woman was angry and was jabbing her finger at Feather’s face. ‘I tell you, that’s not his!’ she stormed.
Feather stepped back from her to greet Daniel and Abigail.
‘You were in,’ he said. ‘Thank heavens for that. This is Lilly Wallace, Joe’s wife.’
‘His widow, now!’ snapped the young woman. She glared at Daniel and Abigail. ‘Who are you?’
‘Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton,’ said Daniel. ‘We’re private investigators hired by the National Gallery to look into recent events there.’
‘You’re the two who’ve been chasing Joe!’ said the woman accusingly, and now she turned her anger on them. ‘You drove him to this!’ Then suddenly she subsided and muttered: ‘Or you would’ve, if he’d topped himself. But I don’t believe it. For one thing, that razor ain’t his.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. He never needed one. He was a butcher. He used a knife to shave. He said if it could shave bristles off a pig, it could get them off his chin.’
They were interrupted by the door of the privy opening and an elderly doctor stepping out, carrying his doctor’s bag.
‘You can have him now, Inspector,’ he said to Feather. He doffed his hat towards Lily Wallace. ‘My condolences, Mrs Wallace,’ he said.
‘He didn’t do it!’ burst out Lily. ‘He wouldn’t have killed himself and left me and the kids. Someone did him.’
‘When was the time of death, Doctor?’ asked Feather.
‘At least a day ago, as far as I can make out, from the advanced state of rigor mortis.’
‘Yeh, that was when I last saw him,’ said Lily. ‘He said he was going up west.’ She looked accusingly at Feather. ‘That was right after you called, looking for him.’
‘So he was in the house?’ said Feather.
‘Yes, hiding. Scared. What did you expect me to do, peach on him?’
‘One other thing,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s a wound on the back of his head. He might have hit his head against something when he fell, or …’
‘Someone bashed him!’ said Lily firmly. ‘I told you. Someone did this to him.’
‘I’ll leave you now, Inspector, and examine the body formally later at the Yard,’ said the doctor, and with that he departed.
‘Why was Joe going up west?’ Daniel asked Lily.
‘He was going to see some rich bloke. He said it was this bloke’s fault the police were looking for him and he was going to get it sorted.’
‘Is that what he said? It was this rich bloke’s fault?’
‘Well, not in so many words. But this rich bloke had called for him twice in a carriage. Joe said it was to do private work for him, but I don’t know what sort of private work it was. Joe said it was butchery work.’
Feather exchanged looks with Daniel and Abigail, then said to Lily: ‘Mrs Wallace, this is no place to talk. Would you mind coming to Scotland Yard with me?’
‘Yes I would!’ she snapped at him. ‘I ain’t going to no Scotland Yard. I’ve got the kids waiting for me at home. They’re with a neighbour.’
‘In that case, can we drive you to Whitechapel and we’ll talk there?’
She hesitated, uncertain. Then nodded towards the privy. ‘What about Joe? We can’t leave him there.’
‘I’ll have Joe sent to Scotland Yard. I’m afraid we’ll need to examine his body, but we’ll help you make arrangements for his funeral.’
‘Funeral?’ she barked angrily. ‘It’ll be a pauper’s funeral.’
‘Would you mind if I examined the scene?’ Daniel asked.
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say,’ said Feather, relieved. ‘That’s why I sent for you.’
‘While you’re doing that, perhaps Mrs Wallace wouldn’t mind if I accompanied you to Whitechapel, Inspector,’ said Abigail. ‘It would save her the distress of having to undergo further questioning again later.’
Lily Wallace nodded. ‘Yeh,’ she said. ‘It won’t seem so bad if I arrive home and there’s another woman with me, instead of just the police.’
Feather turned to Sergeant Cribbens and said: ‘I’ll let you take Mr Wilson back to the Yard, Sergeant. Miss Fenton and I will join you there after we’ve seen Mrs Wallace home.’ To Daniel, he said: ‘I left the razor where it was. Can you bring it with you when you’re ready?’
With that, Feather and Abigail walked with Lily Wallace to the carriage that had brought her from Whitechapel, and Daniel and Sergeant Cribbens walked into the privy.
Daniel’s detailed examination of the body and the crime scene confirmed the doctor’s conclusion: that Joe Wallace had been struck on the back of the head. Daniel took out his magnifying glass and studied the open razor that lay beside the body. As he’d hoped, there were the impressions of fingerprints in the blood on the handle.
‘You don’t reckon he did it, do you, Mr Wilson?’ remarked Cribbens.
‘It seems unlikely. Why would a man travel all the way from Whitechapel to Seven Dials to cut his own throat? And do it with a razor that wasn’t his, according to his wife?’ Very carefully he laid a handkerchief down beside the bloody razor, then took a pair of tweezers from his pocket and lifted the razor, laid it on the handkerchief and wrapped it carefully. ‘If I’m right, these fingerprints will tell us whether Wallace killed himself or someone else did it.’
‘I’ve heard the chief superintendent talk about this fingerprints business,’ said Cribbens doubtfully. ‘He don’t believe in them.’
‘Then we’re lucky the chief superintendent isn’t here,’ grinned Daniel.